


An Arrangement Stoppered

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire have an arrangement. That is, until they don't. (Enjolras is effectively Grantaire's sugar daddy initially, just in case that idea upsets anyone). Grantaire is eighteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Arrangement Stoppered

Enjolras refused to feel bad. He would _not_ feel bad. He'd always had issues with self control, and well. Grantaire was, after all, an adult perfectly and unutterably capable of consent – which Combeferre and Courfeyrac agreed on, and thus it was not just Enjolras feeling this way out of some selfish twist of thought – and Enjolras was not manipulating him, or forcing him, or any such thing.

And yet, sat like this, Grantaire across from him in the restaurant, taking bites of his pasta without a care in the world, when Enjolras was twice his age, Enjolras felt despicable.

“I won't take advantage of you.” Enjolras said desperately, cutting through their comfortable silence and affecting Grantaire to raise his eyebrows and look at Enjolras in a bemused fashion. “If you wish to stop this arrangement at any time, you are free to do so, and there will be no punishment, or attack, or any such thing. You are completely free to leave me.”

“Yes.” Grantaire agreed, and he was so Goddamn _confident_ for an eighteen-year-old, and Enjolras knew it wasn't arrogance because he knew that this was a boy who'd struggled with self esteem issues, and yet when it came to what he wanted, when it came to Enjolras, he minced not a single word, was frank and candid and explicit, and Enjolras was _intoxicated_. “If I feel like it, I'll leave.”

“You will?” Enjolras asked, looking hopeful, and Grantaire just rolled his eyes, looking back to his meal. It was a simple arrangement. Grantaire and Enjolras had sex. Enjolras bought Grantaire clothes, and took him to dinner, and more often than not, paid for tattoos or for paint or for canvases, or any such thing. And Enjolras was thirty five, and Grantaire was _eighteen_ , and Grantaire was _eighteen fucking years old_.

“We're taking advantage of each other, Enjolras. Shut the fuck up and eat your lasagne.” Grantaire said simply, and Enjolras' heart felt like it had swelled in his chest. 

They argued. A lot. Considerably, actually.

Enjolras was thirty five and still firmly optimistic, was working in politics and in business, ran his own charity, helped locally. He could change the world on a smaller level, and make it better over all. Grantaire believed in nothing tangible. He believed not in change, nor in socio-economic reform, nor in politics, revolution, economics, society, and especially not humanity. He believed in love, and freedom, and, so he had told Enjolras one night, in Enjolras himself. 

And Grantaire wasn't pretty. The first time he'd slid into Enjolras' lap in that Goddamn, sordid bar, the air thick with furls of smoke and the smell of drink, he had said firmly that he knew that, and that he could make up for his cursed face with a blessedly skilled tongue. And Enjolras had said yes, damn it, because he'd not had sex in two _years_ , and Grantaire had blown his mind and left him limp and exhausted on the bed, still absolutely ready to go on himself. And he had, too, had been spread wide at the foot of Enjolras' bed, four fingers in himself as he whimpered, and Enjolras had just _stared_ , absolutely destroyed by the sight, the performance, engineered for his enjoyment. Ugly though Grantaire's face was, when contorted into the desperate throes that accompanied orgasm, he was _enchanting_. 

They'd begun their little arrangement months ago now, months upon months ago.

Today, Enjolras had phoned Grantaire on his lunch break, and Grantaire had answered the phone with a sharp, “ _What_?”

“I want you for dinner tonight.” Enjolras had said, and Grantaire gave a low growl.

“Fuck off.”

“No, I will not _fuck_ off, Grantaire, I've not seen you this week and I m- want to.” Enjolras did not say he had missed Grantaire, because this was a sexual arrangement, a business arrangement, and not a romantic one. And if he was far more reliant upon Grantaire's moods than he'd meant to be? Well. That emotional connection had been an accident, and Enjolras lacked the self control to cut it off. “For someone who is meant to be warming my bed, you're damn rude.”

And Grantaire had laughed. _Laughed_ at him, as if what Enjolras had said was absolutely hilarious, and he had said, “There's been a crucial misunderstanding here, Enjolras. I do not warm your bed. _You_ warm _mine_.” And God, that had set something alight in him. Enjolras' cock had shown interest immediately, and Grantaire had said, “Pick me up at seven.” before hanging up.

Enjolras couldn't even bring himself to be angry: he had to unbutton his fucking trousers and palm his _cock_.

So when they went back to Enjolras' apartment that night, Grantaire had lingering irritation he wanted to take out on top of the annoyance Enjolras managed to work up after the restaurant. The conversation had turned to politics in the taxi, which never ended well, and Grantaire cut off Enjolras' final comment with his mouth on Enjolras', biting at his lips as he pinned the other man against the wall in the hallway. 

Enjolras gasped against Grantaire’s mouth, arching up as Grantaire cupped his cock through Enjolras’ trousers. Enjolras did not top, had not topped since the first night he’d brought Grantaire home, and while some little, brain-washed part of him still cried “But _you_ are the dominant partner here!” he loved it all the same.

Grantaire was rough in getting Enjolras naked, throwing his clothes aside and throwing Enjolras to boot, shoving him into the bed with his ass in the air and his hands behind his back.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Enjolras heard him whisper, sounding absolutely reverent, and he couldn’t help the shiver that went through him. “Fuck.” And then Grantaire's hands were on him, grasping at his thighs and repositioning him, pushing Enjolras' legs apart and pushing him down, tying Enjolras' hands with the cuffs he knew were waiting for them on Enjolras' bedside table. “Gorgeous, gorgeous, _beautiful_ , fuck, I'm gonna paint you once I've fucked you, just like this.” 

Enjolras choked out a noise as Grantaire pressed two fingers against his entrance, wet, and a little cold, but he couldn't care as he pushed back for more. “Fuck me, kid, come on-” Grantaire slapped his ass; Enjolras would be a liar if he said that wasn't exactly what he wanted.

“Thirty fucking five, and look at you, on your knees for a teenager.” Grantaire murmured, adding a third finger and drawing a punched-out exhalation from Enjolras' mouth. “God, and you're so _hot_ , fuck, cannot fucking believe- look at you. So pretty, so fucking pretty-” 

Enjolras thought he did not love Grantaire more than he did in that moment. And then Grantaire lined himself up, and fucked forwards with a cock that was really too big to be on such a young man, and _that_ became the moment he loved Grantaire the most.

“I'm not that- that pretty, Grantaire-” Enjolras managed to get out as Grantaire started to thrust, and Grantaire, God damn the kid, stopped. He pulled back, grabbed the arm chair in the corner of the room, a winged thing, and dragged it to sit in front of Enjolras' mirror. “Oh, no, no-” And then Grantaire _lifted_ him, fuck, lifted Enjolras like he didn't weigh any damn thing at all and carried him, lined Enjolras up and dropped him down.

Enjolras took Grantaire's cock to the root, unable to do anything else, hands trapped between his back and Grantaire's chest, and he whimpered as he stared at himself in the mirror. “Look at how pink your fucking nipples are, Enjolras, look at how smooth your skin is, God, your happy trail make me _very_ fucking happy-”

And Enjolras was letting out cries, because Grantaire was lifting him up and fucking him down as if Enjolras was nothing more than a doll, and then he pulled Enjolras' legs up, hands hooked under his knees, and Enjolras cried out. “Fuck, look at that ass, so _red_ , fucking tight little rim fucked loose-” Enjolras was gasping, tense and chest tight, and God, he was going to come, he was going to come from fucking _this_ \- “You look like a fucking twink. Look at your cock, look, it's fucking _dribbling_ , Enjolras.”

His cock was pearling with precome at its tip, white dripping onto the ground laminate underneath them, and Enjolras let out a whine, dropping his head back to Grantaire's shoulder. “Fuck.” He came like that, hands trapped between himself and Grantaire, Grantaire balls deep inside him, taking in desperate gasps and moaning as he clenched around the other man's cock.

Grantaire came quickly enough, but while he eased Enjolras off his cock, he didn't push him off, instead bringing him back into his lap. “I will not be held like a-” Enjolras began to protest, but Grantaire had already pulled Enjolras properly into his lap, undoing the cuffs with one hand ( _how?_ ) and pressing kisses to his neck. 

“Gorgeous.” Grantaire said firmly, pulling Enjolras down for another kiss, leaning up and into it, and God, Enjolras should not have felt so intoxicated by the feel of the boy's lips on his own. 

Grantaire stayed the night, and Enjolras curled his body around him, holding him tightly and enjoying Grantaire's warmth against his chest and his thighs as he wrapped his arms around the artist and kept a tight hold on his hips. And God, what a great artist Grantaire was. He didn't paint Enjolras that night, but in the morning, he sketched the blond lazily as he ate a piece of toast. Combeferre tangled a hand in Grantaire's hair by way of greeting when he came into the kitchen in the morning, ruffling it affectionately, and the boy grinned.

Enjolras liked the way Grantaire was with Combeferre. It was friendly, comfortable, and Combeferre was as relaxed around the boy as he was around Enjolras and Courfeyrac – he was not as reserved as he tended to be outside the walls of their apartment. “How's the politics class going?” Combeferre asked Grantaire as he heated oil on the hob.

“You're not my dad, Combeferre.”

“No, and I'm not your _daddy_ either: that's on Enjolras.” Enjolras choked on his coffee as Grantaire laughed before he answered, and he and Combeferre began to talk conversationally. Enjolras was effectively non-verbal until he'd had at least two cups of coffee, and Grantaire was comfortable with this.

“There was something I wanted to talk to you about, actually.” Grantaire said quietly, after the second mug was finished and Enjolras was (sort of) functioning. 

“Hmm?” Enjolras regarded the brunet carefully. Combeferre had left the room, retiring to bed with breakfast on a tray for Courfeyrac. Their apartment was a large thing, with three bedrooms and a massive living room, the kitchen sufficient to host ten people, and each bedroom had an en suite, and they'd lived together for a long time, the three of them.

“I was pissed. When you called yesterday.”

“The “warm my bed” comment.” Enjolras said, absolutely regretful. “I'm terribly sorry, Grantaire,I didn't mean to-”

“No, before that.” The boy looked immensely pensive, playing over the sketch in front of him as he looked up, and his face was ugly, but God, his eyes were blue. “I want to stop our arrangement.” Enjolras felt like his heart had dropped out of his chest. 

“Oh.” He said quietly. “Well, you are completely free to do so. You can, of course, keep everything I've given you, and I'll delete your number from my phone and I will leave you be, I prom-”

“No.” Grantaire interrupted him again, and he swallowed hard before saying, “No, I don't want you to do that. I want to keep you.”

“Keep me?” Enjolras repeated. 

“Yeah. Don't- you don't have to buy me things. Or take me to dinner. Or anything. But I want to- I want to keep coming here. I want-” Grantaire's lips twitched, and Enjolras stared at him.

“You want to date.” He said carefully, and Grantaire swallowed hard, and then he put his face in his hands.

“Forget I said anything. I know you only want me to fuck, I know I'm too- God, I just-”

“You're not too anything, Grantaire.” Enjolras murmured. “I refuse your terms.” Grantaire crumpled, and Enjolras knew he was undoubtedly thinking Enjolras was going to throw him out. “I'll just pamper you because I wish to, rather than for some sexual arrangement. In fact, that's exactly what we'll do. No sex for a while, to show you I mean it.” He spoke earnestly, but Grantaire rolled his eyes even harder than he had in the restaurant the night before.

“That's fucking farcical.” Farcical was what Courfeyrac and Enjolras referred to affectionately as a Combeferre word. It was nice that Grantaire picked up the way Combeferre spoke, taking some of the words for himself now and then. “I'm not going to abstain just because _you're_ a pussy about feelings.” And even as he spoke, Grantaire's cheeks were flushing red, and he looked about ready to start crying. “We are going to fucking- _do_ this. And I'm going to be _perfect_ for you.” 

And it was strange, because while Grantaire was never willing to do a thing for Enjolras while Enjolras was trading for it, and now he seemed earnest.

“You already are.” Enjolras murmured, without thinking about it, and Grantaire swallowed.

“You are _gorgeous_ , Enjolras. Gorgeous, and intelligent, and I don't deserve this-”

“Doesn't matter. I want you. You want me. Deserve doesn't come into it.” Enjolras murmured, and Grantaire let out a slow breath. And then, he threw himself forwards, catching Enjolras' lips under his own, and Enjolras whimpered, pressing into the touch eagerly, and Grantaire tangled his hands in the other's hair, pulling him closer. “I'm going to fucking blow you.” Enjolras said when Grantaire pulled back, and he'd never done that before, never permitted himself to put his mouth on Grantaire like that even for his own enjoyment, and Grantaire choked out a noise.

Enjolras pushed him back towards the room, leaving the sketch half-finished on the counter, and Grantaire gasped and whined as Enjolras shoved his hand into his borrowed pyjama bottoms, nipping at his lips as he crowded Grantaire back into the bedroom.

It probably wasn't healthy, he was aware, and Grantaire was _definitely_ aware. But God, when Grantaire was here with his cynicism and his sharp tongue and his hands and his _hair_ and his mouth, fuck.

Enjolras had always had issues with self control. How could he resist?


End file.
